The Hunting of the Snark
by Persephoniii
Summary: When the Boy Who Lived fails to defeat The Dark Lord, the Wizarding World falls to ruin, and Severus Snape: Death Eater, Potions Master, Headmaster, SPY, finds himself irrevocably… without a future.
1. Prologue: Some are Boojums

A/N: DH complaint...to an extent. Takes place during chapter 32 of DH..but goes AU from there.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

In the midst of the word he was trying to say,  
In the midst of his laughter and glee,  
He had softly and suddenly vanished away—  
For the Snark _was_ a Boojum, you see.

-Lewis Carroll, _The Hunting of the Snark_

_Prologue:: Some are Boojums_

He knew it the moment he opened his eyes, the moment he was conscious of that first rattling breath within his chest.

Something was _wrong_.

It wasn't simply the fact that he was laying in a pool of blood…_his blood,_ he realized distortedly. It was a feeling, an innate knowledge that something had gone terribly wrong.

The walls blurred before him.

Oh.

_Oh_.

He was in the Shrieking Shack. The Dark Lord had tried to kill him. _No_, he amended; it was the _snake_ who had done the deed. _Attempted_, his mind corrected dimly, because for some inexplicable reason he was still alive. His limbs were numb, dead weights against him, and his breath came in rasping, painful gasps, but he was alive.

_Alive_.

It would have brought a derisive laugh, this thought, had his throat not been so constricted and swollen. That he, Severus Snape, should survive against The Dark Lord's…_whims_... seemed a contradicting case of both 'dumb luck' and 'cruel misfortune'. And…

…and he was _here_ again. _Here of all places_…! The same place that had nearly been his _tomb_ over 2 decades ago. In the stillness around him, he could almost hear the phantom growls of the werewolf Lupin, could almost smell the rancid musk of the creature that had once lingered in the room. His stomach clenched and he took a shaky breath, trying to calm his lurching insides. He closed his eyes.

And his world burst into color.

_Red hair like molten gold, like a late sunset disappearing over the horizon. Sparkling green eyes gazed out at him from the darkness._

He was up in an instant, struggling against his protesting body, eyes wide open, pulling himself sluggishly to his feet, nearly slipping in his own blood. His heart beat painfully in his chest, and the blessed numbness that had previously sheathed his form vanished, leaving pain, sharp and piercing.

How long had he spent simply laying here, he wondered, while all around him wizards immersed themselves in battle? Another thought struck him abruptly.

_Had the boy_…_Had he and the Dark Lord_ _already_ - ?

Consternation, swift and cold, darkened his face, and he made a jerky step forward.

He _had_ to find Potter.

It was too much to hope that the child had managed to figure it out for himself. Never mind that not even _he himself_ would have surmised that both the boy _and_ The Dark Lord would have to die-

His lips gave a contemptuous curl. _An empty attempt_. He couldn't even summon irritation at the knowledge that he'd been reduced to some….some _harbinger of death_. That even at the forefront of battle he was still being used as some perverse 'go between'. On both ends of the spectrum, it all came back to one Harry Potter…

His step wavered, and he fell against the wall, room spinning madly.

_The venom_?

It would begin to affect him rapidly now that he was conscious and active. Though he could only speculate as to why he was even still _alive_. Years of sampling new potions and of inhaling fumes had perhaps given his body a certain degree of immunity against poison. It was, he assumed, the only reason he'd lasted _this_ long. But combined with the amount of blood he'd already lost…and _was still loosing_… A hand swept absently to his neck. It was impossible to tell.

With some difficulty, he forced himself to straighten. _Walk_, he thought grimly. _Just walk_. Out of habit, his hand closed automatically over the wand in his sleeve. Except that this time, instinct felt wrong, the fingers were thick and clumsy. He couldn't feel his fingertips, he realized suddenly, could barely register any feeling in his hand at all. He wouldn't last an instant if he were attacked along the way… But he couldn't help that. There was nothing he could do at present. He stumbled towards the dark corridor.

It was exasperating work.

His sudden, stilted movements had indeed increased the venom's travel, though his mind at least, seemed to be working properly. _For now_. His body on the other hand, was a different story. There was a definite lull in his senses, and by the time he managed to drag himself to the exit, by the time he'd fumbled for and pushed the knob at the base of the willow tree and pulled himself out, he was drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted. Greasy black hair clung limply to his forehead, and his dark eyes were cloudy and blurred. He wondered absently if he would go blind, too.

He collapsed on the ground.

_Bloody hell_. Would he have to _crawl_ now?! There seemed to be no end… He lay there a moment, catching his breath, body completely done in. Distantly, _objectively_ even, his mind settled on the willow above him. He needed to move, he thought with some irritation. He _really_ must get out of range of that infernal tree—

But he would never make it in time, not in this condition. Resigned, he turned over, wondering if he had enough energy to toss a hex at the tree, when his cloudy eyes settled on the boughs. Or lack thereof.

The tree was gone.

Well, not _gone_ exactly, though most certainly branchless. Illuminated by the half slit of the moon in the sky, Severus could just make out the form of it, grotesque and still. The twisted base looked strangely deformed without the limbs. He smelled it too, the tree. Just faintly on the wind. The smell of scorched tree sap and wood. The odor made his nose burn, and he stared up, pale faced and silent. Something inside him went utterly still, and he pulled himself painfully to his knees, staring slowly around him over the waning moonlit grounds.

It was over.

He knew it with a quiet sort of certainty. _It was over_.

And there was no question as to who had won. That much, he could attest, was _quite_ obvious. As obvious as the littering of bodies which dotted the vast court-yard around him. His breath rasped faster.

There was no one. No wayward presences to be felt nearby, no stray sparks of spells. No _sound_. _No sound_. There was simply silence.

He laughed, painful as it was.

It built within him, spilling through his dry throat; a bitter sort of laugh, triumphant, slightly mad.

_Oh the irony!_

The boy had failed. The golden 'Boy Who Lived' had wholly and completely failed. The child whom of which the entire wizarding world viewed as some sort of…_Messiah _- here he scowled - had failed. Oh how he relished it. Both relished and abhorred it, even. The boy for whom so many were willing to lay down their lives, for whom rules never seemed to apply, who could probably get away with _murder_ if he so wished it. The…the…_teenager_ who could barely pass potions, that _mediocre_ wizard. _If that, _he corrected snidely He'd failed. Was probably _dead_-

Lily's son was dead.

The amusement drained from his face.

Lily's son was gone. _Lily_ was gone. The last known link to this world…

And suddenly he was furious. His heart beat fast, his eyes prickled. In his hand, his wand was clutched so tightly that it might very well have broken had his attention not strayed to the castle before him. The poison was there, running through his veins, and the cool air against his blood soaked robes made his skin prickle, but his mind was on one thought.

_Was the portrait still there?_ _In the office?_

How much of the actual castle remained? His black eyes lowered wildly to the ground, focusing on the pale, bony hands buried beneath the soil. It was impossible to tell from here, with his fading eyesight.

_How much had the Death Eaters left standing after their victory? _

He prayed it was still there, the Headmaster's portrait. Oh how he would _destroy_ the thing, he thought nastily. His voice was a dagger, sharpened to diamond-esque perfection with age, and he would use it to tear into the old wizard, unrelenting. Perhaps he would even carry the portrait to the window, let the man see the result of his…_brilliance._ _Let him suffer_, he thought viciously. _Let his heart ache for his precious _Harry Potter_… _

Everything…_everything had been wrong_!

His fingers clawed fiercely into the earth. A strangled sob escaped his throat. It felt as though he were coming apart at the seams. Hysteria. _Dementia_. They rode the corners of his mind, scrambling for entrance, trying to unravel it, _him_, and for a moment he feared he might very well loose the rigid control he held so dear. It was the only thing of himself in which he truly owned…he couldn't- _couldn't_… His shoulders shook.

But what was the point?

The uncertainty grew, and with it, something else. That fury, that half quenched rage that he'd so diligently, for years, kept at bay. The bitterness, the…_resentment. _It washed over him now, doused him. And it was with renewed strength that he suddenly found himself on his feet, ignoring the increased spinning in his head as he strode purposefully, albeit unsteadily, towards the castle. The breeze was cool on his face; a wet combination of sweat and tears which he didn't bother to wipe away. There was no one around to see anymore. He'd be dead soon anyway.

_Dead_. He was dying, and he'd failed to protect Lily…_and_ her son, much as he loathed the little brat, but as long as he got to the Headmaster…as long as he saw the look on the old wizard's face, he could die with at least _some_ semblance of satisfaction. He would not be the only one who suffered! Oh no! It was a torment that he would gladly share, especially with…_him_.

The scent of blood and death hung thick over the grounds. He did not bother to avoid the many bodies and limbs that lay strewn before him. Neither did he look at them; they wouldn't bear any resemblance to the people he'd known anyway, and regardless, his vision was becoming so cloudy that it was nearing impossible to see more than a few yards ahead of himself. It was only habit, and that fueling rage that kept him going forward and oriented.

The air was cold. Odd, he noted absently, for May. He felt a sharp crack beneath his shoe, and paused, breathing hard.

_Ice_?

Certainly not this time of year. _Unnatural ice_, _then_. _Residual material from a lingering spell, perhaps._ His mind waved it impatiently away, eager to get to the Headmasters office. But another part, the rational part, gave pause. It most definitely _was_ ice – he felt the sharp chill of it through his shoes – but it had happened suddenly, and recently too, for he certainly did not remember the temperature being this way back near the willow. It had to be something else…

He stopped, squashing the urge to kneel for a closer look. If he went down now, he wasn't confident that he'd be able to get back up in his current condition. So his eyes darted around in a suspicious squint, trying to penetrate the fog of his eyes. But…was it really his _eyes_ that were foggy, he wondered suddenly?

_Could it be-_

But he hadn't _felt_ anything. Surely they wouldn't…there was no one left alive here, after all; not that he could tell. There was only himself… He resumed his trek. Faster now, or at least as quickly as his body could manage. He could feel flecks of ice in the air, thin and sharp. Something cold and wispy brushed against his arm, and he stumbled over a body and landed hard on the ground, wand flying out of his hand.

_Damn-_!

Pain shot through his limbs, magnified by ten it seemed, and through the spinning in his head he rooted clumsily for his wand. But the feeling had long since faded from his fingers, and the fog was so thick that he could barely see…

Then there was a flutter; the barest of touches on his mind before the screaming began. Like whispers in his psyche.

He recognized them.

He sank back, gritting his teeth. He _couldn't_ loose control…he couldn't let them get to him. He called his wand, and heard the answering smack of wood against his palm before pulling it securely to his chest. Even that small bit of magic had been taxing, and it was with difficulty that he pulled himself to his feet. There was no way he could summon his Patronus, not in his current state. Any attempt at any major magic would leave him severely vulnerable. His step faltered a moment before he strode shakily forward, automatically occluding his mind as he went.

He needed to get inside. He needed to get out of the open area. But he was disoriented. He'd gotten confused in his fall, he'd lost view of the castle. He spun, and it was from pure habit that he found himself brandishing his wand, staring deep into the foggy night. To his left he caught a glint. A vague orange twinkle, and he dove towards it like a drowning man. Light, he thought. It _had_ to be the castle…

It was.

His eyes stayed on that tiny pin prick of light. At times it disappeared completely from view, obscured by the fog, and he had to stop and search for it, feeling a vague sense panic overtake him. But then it would reappear, the light, and he would amble desperately towards it.

Eventually the fog thinned. Or maybe he had simply walked his way through it. Regardless, the presence of the Dementors had faded slightly, and the torch lights of the castle interior were now plainly visible.

It loomed like a great cathedral before him, the castle. He felt the odd contrast, seeking sanctuary _here_ of all places; it drew a sharp parallel to the years before, when he had done the same thing, when he'd come crawling back _here…_to_ him. _His entire life, it seemed was worth nothing more than to be used like some-

The screaming, which had quieted, at once increased, and he swayed under the pressure of it, nearly loosing his bearings. He wouldn't make it. _He wouldn't_- He would be killed by the Dementors, his soul sucked out like some petty criminal-

_Oh, but that's what you are, isn't it? The darkest of the dark. Incapable of redemption or even clemency…_

His throat burned.

He was defenseless, as useless as a muggle at present. His face fell into a glowering scowl. He needed to move _faster_…

But his body didn't seem to want to obey him. It _hurt_, moving like this. The anger was fast fading, and with it the blessed adrenaline that had hitherto given him strength. Twice he stumbled. It was harder to get up the second time. He needed to stop, if only for a moment to catch his breath. His legs felt thick and clumsy, and his mind was so disoriented that he couldn't discern whether this was an effect of the Dementors or simply the venom acting.

He bit the inside of his cheek and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Something sharp exploded in his head, a kaleidoscope of colors that dulled the screams just slightly. The pain helped, it gave him something to focus on, and he barely noticed when his feet touched the stone of the castle steps. The large oak doors were gone; completely splintered through by a spell. Not that such a thing as a _door_ could stop a Dementor, anyway. He stumbled through the archway.

The moment he stepped through he knew something was off.

He'd expected this, of course; the school had fallen to the Death Eaters, to The Dark Lord _himself_. But it was still a shock, not feeling the hum of the protection wards. It meant that Hogwarts had _truly_ fallen. He couldn't discern the feeling that settled over him at this realization.

The Headmasters office, _his office_, he corrected, was located on the 7th floor. A furtive glance behind him confirmed that he was still alone. They hadn't caught up yet. But certainly it was only a matter of time. _A race_. Against time, against _death_. But he would do this last deed. He would do this for _himself_.

He took a meandering step forward and knew immediately that he would never make it past the first floor. His body had begun to tremble, and though the freezing chill from the grounds had penetrated the school, he was soaked with sweat. He needed an easier way…a broom perhaps, some sort of transportation-

He exhaled, and his breath flared like smoke before his face. The torch lights dimmed and then extinguished in a hiss, and Severus held his breath, staring at the door. There was darkness.

They were here.

He heard their rattling breath, it filled his nostrils, putrid and rotten. He caught glimpses through the moonlit windows, the tattered end of a cloak, the hooded head. A gnarled, decayed hand brushed against his face.

And…coldness.

He felt it all around through the fog of his mind. It invaded him, chilled him to the bone.

But it wasn't as bad as the screams.

He fell against the stone wall, breathing hard. All around him they slid against him, gliding against his skin, fingers trailing through his hair like a lover's caress-

_Surrounded by Dementors… Screams_-

_Where_ was his wand?!, he thought wildly. He couldn't think straight. The cold was seeping into his mind, his thoughts were sluggish and useless. He needed to think of something pleasant..._pleasant_..!! _Lily, _he thought wildly_. Lily Potter. No…Evans_!, h_e _corrected_. Lily Evans!! _But Lily was dead. Everyone _around_ him was dead. The Dark Lord had won. The Headmaster had been wrong, and Harry Potter was dead, just like _Lily_…

_Lily_…

His vision swam.

He stood frozen, paralyzed. They hadn't touched him in the courtyard for whatever reason, but they would have him _now_?! _Now_ of all times, when he was so _close_?! He could have yelled at the injustice of it. _Let greasy _Snivellus _get close to his goal and then snatch it all away! _Oh, he should be used to it by now, certainly!. It was the story of his lifeSo why should his _death_ be any different?!

The hands were on him once more. Several hands, it seemed. They couldn't seem to decide who would take him. It occurred to him suddenly, in some perverse morbidity, that this was the one and only time that anyone had ever bothered to fight over him. That it should be Dementors of all creatures… But then his face was being tilted upwards, something brushed against his nose, and white hot terror whipped through his mind, pushing all other thoughts aside.

And then the cold increased and he stopped thinking.

TBC


	2. Flashing Lights

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Note: for some reason, my MS Word, (or perhaps it's simply a problem with the site itself), seems to be uploading errors. You might notice certain words jumbled together in this chapter, but no matter how many times I re-upload, it doesn't seem to help.

"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again  
The five unmistakable marks  
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,  
The warranted genuine Snarks.

Lewis Carroll, _The Hunting of the Snark_

Chapter Two: Flashing Lights

oOo

He had never expected it to happen this way, quite honestly.

Around the room, the only movement to be seen was the flickering of the candles, wafted gently by wayward drafts of the castle. The Portrait of Albus Dumbledore had not seen a living person for _hours_. Desperate for news, he'd even gone so far as to send Phineas back to his _other_ portrait, in the hopes that he would find at least _one_ of the Trio, that he would bring back _some_ sort of news…

That had been over an hour ago.

Phineas had not returned.

And if the deafening silence within the castle was any indication, then he already had his answer…even if it were not the one he'd been hoping for. The Portrait closed his eyes, and a gnarled hand went to remove the half-moon spectacles from his face. He was not one to loose heart; he had the utmost faith that things would go as they should, that the war between Voldemort and Harry Potter would soon come to an end.

But would that ending be a _good_ one?

That knowledge, the chance, no matter how miniscule, that there could be even the slightest doubt, was what worried him now. It was what caused his eyes to flicker uncertainly to the window, wishing, not for the first time that night, that he was able to see over the grounds. Things could go either way at this point.

So it should not have been the surprise that it was when the pale and bloodied form of Severus Snape stumbled through the fireplace Floo.

oOo

"Severus!"

He heard the voice call through a fog of obscurity. Distorted and faint, it never-the-less managed to slowly unwind the frail coils of focus he'd spun.

"_Severus!_"

It sounded again, _insistent_, and this time he snapped a vicious retort, something sharp and impolite that his mind, in it's haze, could not decipher. Never-the-less, it was effective enough that the voice was blessedly silenced.

Goodhe thought. _Good_. He could not afford distractions. He needed to focus. The bite between his neck and shoulder burned furiously, and his mind was a miasma of darkness. He had to concentrate, needed every ounce of it if he was to succeed in his current objective…which currently involved sifting though the dusty vials in his cupboard. The clinking of glass sounded like bells throughout the room, delicate bells that turned to shatters as several of the vials crashed to the floor.

_Dammit!_

_Was that—?_

Around him, the room pitched, and he barely realized that he had fallen. His knees collided with broken glass and spilled potions, but he somehow managed to pick up one of the unbroken vials, holding it shakily to a candle. It was unlabeled, filled with a pale, lavender liquid and covered in a thin film of dust that no doubt altered the color, but… He fumbled with the stopper, downing the potion in one fierce and desperate gulp. A shudder ran through him; his hand tightened on the vial a brief instant before he felt it slip from his grasp.

Time stopped.

The furious beating in his chest slowed to a faint, indiscernible _thump_. And then nothing. The room around him faded from view, and he was enveloped in lucid darkness. He felt weightless; he was floating, buoyant above the desk, and indeed, he could almost imagine looking down upon himself even; a pale, hooked-nosed man —seemingly unconscious— laying awkwardly across a glass laden floor. The tips of his dark hair were saturated with blood, and his eyes were half open, glossy and unseeing.

_Ah, but this is familiar_.

He was once again in a room, on his back, the blood already beginning to pool beneath him, just as he had been in the Shrieking Shack. Except that this time his mind was slurred, disassociated. He couldn't seem to bring his thoughts to order. Was he _really_ that sad, pathetic man strewn across the floor? The eyes were hollow, with dark, bruising circles beneath them that made the thin face appear even thinner. The skin itself had already taken on a death pallor. But that _couldn't_ be him down there, he reasoned calmly. Not when he was here, _up here_, staring down. And…

And then there was that _sound_.

He ceased his appraisal of the body on the floor, attention momentarily diverted. _What was that?_ He could _feel_ it, the noise, could feel the dull thrummings of energy pulsating around him. It resonated through the walls, just at the edge of his psyche.

"_Wake up_."

He heard the voice, acknowledged it silently with a mental scowl, and then disregarded it all together. The noise, that… _sound_ was coming closer, or seemed to be. _What __**is**__ that?_, he wondered again. He found himself spinning, the room kaleidoscoping around him, but he could not pin-point the sound, could not describe it even, except to say that it was vaguely familiar. _Familiar_…

_Yes_, he thought, suddenly remembering. He _had_ heard it before. Not more than 10 minutes ago, actually. He'd heard that sound in the entrance hall of the castle, just as the Dementors were about to—

"…-_up_. _Wake_ _up_, Severus!"

He hissed. The memory of the Dementors melted away, and he found himself staring blankly up at the oval ceiling of the office. He _wasn't_ floating. He _didn't_ feel weightless or buoyant—

He hurt.

_Everything_ hurt.

Above him, the flames from the candles cast eerie shadows along the walls. He moved a hand gingerly towards his neck.

_Oh_, he thought.

Oh.

_The_ _blood_. He'd taken a potion. He could taste it in his mouth, bitter and acrid. Apparently the dusty vial had been the correct choice, for it had successfully replenished his blood...for the moment, at least. He could feel it, warm and thick, running between his fingers from the wound on his neck.

_I'm alive..._

He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the revelation.

Alive.

_Him_.

If someone had told him that he would be the sole survivor of the war – for by now he was _quite_ certain that he was - he would have laughed, perhaps even hexed the person. Better still, if that same person had told him that he would be here, fighting for his life when he had nothing to _live_ for…

The morbid amusement died in his throat.

The significance was not lost to him. He could not go back to Voldemort, as he was supposed to be dead. He had no wish to, anyway. And he could not return to the Order either, even if there _were_ any surviving members, which he doubted. …not that he had any real desire to do so. There was no one in the Order that he was particularly fond of. Not that it really mattered in the long run, he supposed. He had effectively, completely, and utterly _obliterated_ any future he might have had.

He was alone.

But then, he had been alone for his entire life, really. Oh, there was that brief interlude when he'd first met Lily, when he'd first gotten that _ridiculous_ notion that perhaps people weren't all _that_ bad, that perhaps there truly _could_ be something in life he could enjoy. He gave a bitter smile, black eyes studying the ceiling above him.

How long had he been laying here, in the office? The blood he'd so frantically worked to restore was slowly flowing from his body, and below him, shards of glass stabbed like knives into him. Eventually he became aware of a quiet voice speaking above him. The Portrait was talking to him, speaking in patient, subdued tones as though to a child, but at the moment, his clouded mind could not register what it was saying.

Not that he _needed_ to focus. He already knew what was being said. The usual artificial _niceties_ one said to a person who had obviously been through an ordeal. He decided to save the old Headmaster the trouble, and uttered the words that were probably the bane of every Boy-Who-Lived supporter in the wizarding world.

"He failed."

Silence.

How long had he waited to say those words? Something dark swelled within his chest. Perhaps he _was_ a 'greasy git', he thought faintly, to derive such pleasure from those words. Harry Potter never failed at anything….well, except the one thing that mattered.

But what had he expected? What had _anyone_ expected? He was just a child afterall, and not a very bright one at that.

The room was quiet. The Portrait had still not responded.

He wasn't sure how many moments passed, or how long he lay there. He heard his ragged breathing, the deep erratic beating of his heart, the roar of blood in his ears. He saw the shallow rise and fall of his bloodied robes as he took in breath. But the Portrait had not spoken. Was it still there, he wondered absently? Had it journeyed to another portrait to mull over his words? To mourn? He found he did not really care. He did not wish to see the old face of the former Headmaster, slack and crumbled in mourning for Harry _Potter_.

"Severus _what has happened?_"

It was abrupt; he was unprepared for the sharpness, the strength of that voice. It did not sound sad at all. His chest burned, and he realized he'd been holding his breath. He released it now, watching the errant wind shake the flame of the candles. They danced precariously, and the room dimmed slightly before the flames regained their strength. His vision, he noticed, seemed to be clearing. Well, he imagined that most of the poison would have bleed out by now. He inclined his face towards the direction of the portrait above him.

"Everything you feared," he said simply. It irritated him, if he were completely honest. This was not the reaction he had anticipated from the Portrait. "Everything you fought for and prepared against. The Dark Lord was victorious. What more is there to tell?" he paused for a moment, considering.

"Though if you're asking for _details," _hefinished icilyI'm afraid I was rather…_preoccupied_ at the time." There was a brief moment of silence before the Headmaster spoke again, urgently.

"You must tell me everything you know."

_Everything he knew_. The Portrait wanted him to report in, like the good little spy that he was. He felt a spurt of anger. As long as he had any sort of information, _valuable information_, on the fate of _Harry Potter_... Nevermind that he lay dying on the floor. Nevermind that it was for absolutely _nothing_. Lily had not been avenged. Her son wasn't even _alive_. He couldn't be. There was no way, absolutely _no way_ that a 17 year old boy could defeat a wizard with over 50 years of experience. And the Dark Lord… He pressed his lips together, as if trying to keep the words from forming. As long as he didn't speak them…

He closed his eyes, felt again the embers of that cold fury that had driven him across the grounds and to the castle.

"Fine." And he braced his hands against the floor, grimacing, and pulled himself into a sitting position. He could not see the Portrait. He would have to turn around and look up, as it was directly above him. He did just that, wearily pushing himself away from the solid wall, grabbing the knobs of the cupboard and hauling himself to his feet. He walked stiltedly, wordlessly to the desk, shoes dragging in blood and glass and potions. The Portrait stared down at him in pale faced…_something_. He could not place the look. It was one he'd never seen on the man's face in life, one that did not seem to fit the features. Despair, he wondered? Resignment? No…it was neither of the two. His eyes narrowed, squinting up in cool faced scrutiny, waiting on bated breath for the old Headmaster's next words. But when the Portrait finally spoke, it was something completely unexpected.

"You've been bitten, I presume? He must have felt very confident to have risked the snake in such a way."

Severus stared.

The voice didn't appear to notice. "I must urge you to act quickly now, Severus. The wounds will not close by themselves, I assure you. Arthur had quite a time with his own injuries…"

"Did you not _hear_ me?"

The voice finally stopped, and he stared incredulously into the painted face. Behind the spectacles, the eyes appeared strained. The skin looked strangely pale, translucent. _Ghostlike_. He could almost imagine he saw blue veins running through the face.

"Severus-"

"Potter is _DEAD_." His hand slammed with a resounding SMACK against the desk. Against the deep ebony wood, the yellow appendage shook violently. His gaze slid slowly, face expressionless. As he watched, a splatter of blood dropped from his neck, landing with eerie accuracy onto his hand. A shock of black darkness against the paleness of his skin. His eyes flicked away, back to the Headmasters, hoping perhaps, that the Portrait had missed it.

It hadn't.

The painting's eyes were startlingly realistic. They glittered down at him in unabashed alarm. Severus let his bloodied hand drop limply to his side.

"I'm afraid we don't have much time." The old voice was speaking again, going on as if he _hadn't_ just declared the death of Harry Potter. "I do not know the specifics of the antidote the healers provided Arthur with. You will have to continue taking replenishments until you're able to come up with a suitable potion-"

"There isn't any more! And I didn't come here for-" 

The voice abruptly cut in, with maddening patience. "Then you must _brew_ more, Severus. Quickly now. We have much to discuss."

He sneered.

"'_Discuss?'_" he asked coldly. "What do you wish to _discuss_? The _plan_ perhaps?" he gave a cold smile. "Ah yes. The '_plan'_. Shall I reiterate?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on, voice growing in volume.

"Let me see. If I recall, your 'plan' was to square an _adolescent -_ who hasn't even _graduated_, I might add - and, if memory serves - who we've spent the last several years _protecting_ - against the Dark Lord, when most _accomplished_ wizards can't even defeat him. Oh yes, what a wonderful idea. I can't _imagine_ how it didn't work," he finished sarcastically.

"Severus-"

But it was as though a dam had been broken. All the thoughts that swam through his head, the anger, it came floating to the surface. He wanted to hurt the old man, make him feel the pain of loss that he'd felt all those years ago. Those years his precious _Gryffindors_ would take sport in antagonizing him, those years when he'd begged the Headmaster to protect _her_. He'd given his life to the headmaster, had all but sold his _soul_ to him-

_But no_, a small voice in his head whispered, _you can't have given your soul to Dumbledore. You'd already given it to the Dark Lord…_

And just like that, the fight drained from his body. He collapsed on the floor, both mentally and physically exhausted. He had no one but himself to blame, afterall, didn't he? _He_ was the one who had joined the Death Eater Coven. _He_ was the one who had delivered the prophecy to the Dark Lord. _He_ was the one who had ultimately put into motion all that had transpired. What did it matter that Dumbledore had made a few bad decisions? It was _he_, Severus Snape, who had been the genesis of it all…

Above him, the Portrait was still; watching the younger man with wide and anxious eyes before responding slowly, sounding each word with careful, gentle deliberation.

"Severus, get up. You must brew the potion. You must hurry, Severus."

A pregnant silence filled the air. The old man was visibly troubled, but did not speak for the longest time. He wasn't sure how many moments passed as they watched each other. Several, he was certain, because he was developing a crick in his neck from staring up for so long. And then,

"Severus, the potion-"

"I'm not taking anything!," he cut off icily. "It's over, anyway. I can no longer be your spy since the Dark Lord _himself_ saw fit to dispose of me.."

"Severus, _please_!" The old voice was pleading now, and Severus found himself feeling a staunch sense of irony. No one had ever begged him for anything before…but _especially_ not his life. Why was the old Headmaster so keen on keeping him alive? Certainly it could not be for sentimental purposes. The man had never truly cared for him, not like he had the Gryffindors, at least.

He sighed, felt the full weight of the evening bearing down on him. For the second time, he wondered why he'd bothered coming back at all. He should have allowed the Dementors to take him back in the courtyard. Should have stayed and bled to death under the corpse of the Whomping Willow tree. But the instinct to live…to _survive_ was too strong. It was something that, even now, he could not comprehend. There was no longer any reason for him to live…he'd served his purpose. He'd only wanted to throw it all in the Portraits face, about how wrong it had been, how wrong everything had _gone_.

And yet that too, was a flux, he realized suddenly. Had it all just been an excuse? A reason? Perhaps he was simply afraid to die, afterall.

_Coward._

In every sense of the word. Even when he had not meant to be. He wondered idly about his future. Would he bleed to death? Or would the Dementors take him? They'd flooded the castle by now, to be sure. It would only be a matter of time before-

_The Dementors_.

His breath froze as a sudden surge of memory hit. They'd cornered him, tried to perform the kiss. Even now he was not sure how he had escaped. One moment he'd been caught in an embrace, chin held up by a decayed hand. The next.._the next_….

He couldn't remember, only that he'd suddenly been on the floor, as if dropped. The entrance hall was empty, though there had been the strangest sound-

"I would not underestimate young Harry just yet, Severus." The Headmaster was still talking, had perhaps thought that he'd been listening all the while. "He is very resourceful. Even without telling him, he will eventually figure it out on his own… or perhaps Miss Granger will."

He wanted him to search for Harry Potter, he realized dizzily. That's why he was so keen on keeping him alive. It wasn't because he was _concerned_. Even now, the old Headmaster was no doubt harboring some…some…_fantasy_ that the boy still lived. He had traded one master for the other, he thought bitterly. Voldemort thought him dead; Dumbledore _was_ dead, and now his Portrait wanted him to seek out Potter, was all but actively _encouraging_ him to go to the boy, to perhaps 'pick up where he left off' in Dumbledore's service. It was a thought in which he would not have placed much stock had he not taken that moment to glance up at the portrait. Those blue eyes stared down at him, regarding him in a carefully unreadable expression. His face was blank, gnarled hands stroking the long beard in an almost scheming inattentiveness.

Severus exploded.

"You cannot-! I will _not_ allow myself to be used this way!" he turned abruptly away, wincing at the sudden movement. Behind him, the portrait sighed, and the eyes held a weariness not often seen in life.

"And what way may that be, Severus?"

The younger man snarled, whipping around, and his lank greasy locks slapped against his face.

"Come now, headmaster! Surely you know what I am," the voice, though furious, actually purred. "I am but a mere pawn, a…a…piece on your chess board if you will, and not a very valuable one at that, I daresay. You would have me risk my life but for a phantom-"

"We don't know yet that he-"

"He is DEAD!" Severus finshed, voice raising. Gone was the soft purr; his voice was jagged, deadly. "He is DEAD, Headmaster! And you just as sure as killed him! You've had your way with things for …for… _years_," he sputtered, unable to even connect the words in his fury, "and look where it's gotten us! She _still_ died! Even after everything I told you-" he was rambling, he knew. His voice was thick and choked, but for some reason he couldn't stop.

"Severus, is this about-"

"YES!" He was on his feet, pacing the room, hands digging into his inky hair. "It's always been about her. If you had taken better care.."

"Severus-"

"NO! YOU should have been their keeper! She would never have _died_-"

Severus, _enough_!"

He stopped, closing his eyes. He was once again that pathetic 20 year old, being reprimanded by his former Headmaster, the Headmaster that had probably always known how he would turn out, the things that he would eventually do in his life…

The Portrait was silent, watching him thoughtfully. And then,

"So you've chosen to live then, Severus?"

He realized at once his mistake. The slip of words. He'd not considered them. _You would have me risk my life but for a phantom_. He closed his eyes and sank into his desk chair. He suddenly felt very weary. Had this been his intention all along? _Life_? He'd struggled initially to the castle for the whole purpose of berating the old Headmaster, to gloat, to vent, to… But instead he'd ended up taking a potion, for the purpose of extending his life so that he may have the chance to do these things, to get every last thought out. Nothing, it seemed, was the way that it was supposed to be.

…But _how_ was it supposed to be?, he suddenly wondered. What exactly had been the Headmasters aim?

"Perhaps you are right, Severus," the quiet voice interrupted his thoughts with startling accuracy. "You've done very well all these years, you've been great help. However-"

"My usefulness has run out?," he quipped dryly. The portrait did not miss a beat.

"Your position has been _compromised_," he corrected gently. Severus glared.

"I do not wish to see you harmed, Severus…whatever you might think of me-" He sneered.

"A bit too late, I'm afraid."

"As you've said," the Portrait continued on, clearly choosing to ignore the snide retort, "Hogwarts has fallen. Additionally, I believe that Voldemort may have even reopened the Chamber of Secrets-"

"What?"

The Portrait nodded gravely.

"I fear Voldemort may have reanimated the Basalisk." To his credit, the news did not jar him as it probably _should_ have. What point was there in getting excited? There was no one left in the castle anyway, nothing but bodies, which the creature was welcome to, as far as he was concerned- And yet, he couldn't stop himself from asking his next question, even as a shadow passed over his face. The throbbing pulse he'd felt just outside of the room, the darkness…

"Why do you think the Basalisk has been reanimated?" He asked the question slowly, sharply.

"I have heard…_things_, Severus," the Portrait replied. "Through the walls of the castle…" He stopped listening. The gears were working overtime in his head, running over the events of the night. Of what he could _remember_. The Dementors cornering him. The Dementors closing in, tilting his face back…the Dementors' hasty retreat. Him, waking up alone, weak and stiff, but very much alive. He'd heard the strangest noise…he hadn't given it much thought before, but what if that shuffling drag had been an Inferius serpent? Would Dementors be frightened of Inferi?

_No…probably not_, he reasoned.

But an _Basalisk Inferius_…?

Snakes liked their prey to be alive…technically speaking, Dementors _were_ alive. Could they be consumed by a Basalisk? Would a Basalisk even _want_ to eat a Dementor? Well, perhaps _blind_ Basalisk Inferi…but if it were an _Inferius_, blindness would not matter regardless. But …it didn't make sense. Could such a thing even be _done_? It would take an enormous amount of energy to do so, and why would the Dark Lord waste such time and effort?

The Headmaster seemed to read his thoughts.

"He is arrogant, but thorough. He will not trust the Death Eaters to such a task as emptying the school, though at the same time, he would think that said task would be beneath himself to do-" It was as though a light flicked on in Severus' brain.

"The Dementors-"

The portrait nodded. "I would not be surprised if there were also Inferi lurking about nearby." The old man pinched the bridge of his nose. "I fear we have grossly underestimated Tom Riddle."

There was silence. Severus watched the flickering candles before him. They set eerie shadows about the wall that made him strangely restless. The Portrait spoke suddenly, breaking the silence.

"He will eventually come, you know. Voldemort." Severus did not answer. "Hogwarts is too great an opportunity for him to pass up. It stands for everything he hates, the unification of Muggle-borns and Purebloods. Centuries worth of protection spells cannot be broken overnight. The majority of them, as you may have noticed, have been dispelled. But as long as the Headmaster remains alive and on the grounds, the castle can never truly fall. And of course, there are…other matters.

"If he finds out the elder wand does not work, he will come to one of two conclusions. The first and most obvious would be that he killed the wrong person, that the person who is currently master of the wand is still out there. The second would be that the person he presumably killed is infact-"

"-not dead at all," he finished hollowly. He knew this. He knew that The Dark Lord would eventually began to wonder. He had not really given it much thought. It had never concerned him. His only goal had been to reach the Office, to reach the Portrait. He had not thought about what he would do afterwards. But now…

"I used Minerva's Floo." His voice was barely more than a breath.

The Headmaster did not respond. He didn't need to. The Floo network was still being watched by the Ministry…which in turn was being controlled by The Dark Lord. Undoubtedly they were _still_ watching the Floo, especially now that _He_ had prevailed. Many would be trying to flee the country. Although it probably wouldn't matter very much. If The Dark Lord had already obtained Potter, then he would no longer have much, if any, interest in the Floo Network. But to assume that he would cease watching the network entirely was equally foolish. He cursed his stupidity. He had not been thinking. It was the only way he knew to reach the Office in his current state. It had been sheer luck, happening upon Minerva's first floor Office. It had probably saved his life, if there truly was a Inferius Basalik lurking about.

" …No doubt they are aware of something amiss, already." His voice was hollow, breathless, even to his own ears. He was still thinking of his blood. It was _everywhere_. On the floor of the entrance hall, possibly throughout his trek across the grounds to the castle. Inferi could smell blood; they'd know he was here. If they knew, the Dark Lord would surely know as well…

The Portrait seemed to follow his train of thought.

"And then there is also the matter of your body."

"…yes.." Severus closed his eyes. Would the Dark Lord think to even check? He somehow doubted it. H was disposable to the Death Eater Coven. His usefulness had waned with both Dumbledore's and Potter's defeat. Again, the Portrait seemed to read his thoughts.

"I think you severely underestimate your value, Severus.," the Portrait chided gently, "Voldemort no doubt thinks that he gained this victory due to your death. He will want to celebrate it. Perhaps honor you by retrieving your body. It will be most…_unfortunate_ if you are not to be found."

Severus shook his head.

"I doubt he will give it much thought right now, if ever," he exclaimed wryly. "He will be more interested in…his newfound power." Dumbledore's brows furrowed, but he made no remark. The Dark Lord would eventually wonder about his body, true, but as long as he knew it was tucked away beneath the willow, it would not be an immediate concern to Him. Unless..unless he suspected that the Elder wand was not performing adequately.

His black eyes widened. The Portrait noticed his expression, and nodded slowly.

"Do you understand now? Why we must hurry? Brew the potion, Severus." But Severus shook his head, eyes turning to a glower. He was being petulant, _stubborn_, he knew, but he did not want to cooperate with the man who'd been so wrong about so many things, who cared not a whit for him, who only had eyes for _Gryffindors_…

"Why?," he spat, lip curling, " To go searching for _Potter_, perhaps?" There was a look of intense sadness to the portrait.

"Perhaps I wish to make amends, Severus. Perhaps I wish to help you regain the life you never had a chance to live."

oOo

A/N: For some reason, this chapter was _very_ hard to write…even though I already had the majority of it penned out LONG before I even started on chapter ONE. I apologize for the long wait. On a side note, normally I despise stories with switching POV's, but the transitional paragraph at the beginning from Dumbledore seemed to work. (atleast to me) Thanx to Duj, Malfoy Girl, Firstimewriter, Check Your Reflection, Zafaran, Hamilton, Lady Whitehart, and Cecelle for your thoughtful reviews on the previous chapter.


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